


Master Calendar

by Evilawyer



Category: Angel: the Series, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-26
Updated: 2008-02-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilawyer/pseuds/Evilawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wolfram & Hart's new client has a sticky family law problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master Calendar

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel, of sorts, to "The Calendar Says Nothing About Architecture or Hair Gel".

Angel walked into Wolfram & Hart's main conference room --- the huge one on the top floor with the all-glass walls and the good snacks and drinks --- to find Spike sitting at the head of the table with a briefcase in front of him.

“Get out of my chair, Spike. Better yet, leave.” Angel made a “get out” gesture with his thumb as he moved to sit in the chair at the other end of the table and arranged the files and papers he was carrying into neat piles.

“Now, Angel,” Spike wheedled as he moved his briefcase and himself down the table to sit at Angel's right hand. “Is that any way to talk to someone who's here to help you with the rigors of interviewing potential new clients? It takes a certain amount of finesse to convince someone in need of legal help to hire Wolfham & Hart, even if it is the premiere international evil law firm. Gunn's in court and Percy's not up to client meetings. I'm here to make sure you don't bollocks it all up.”

“I don't need your help, Spike. And knowing you, you're here to stir up trouble, not to help. Go find something else to entertain you. Go watch Jerry Springer or something. Isn't that what you normally do about this time of afternoon?”

“Yeah, but I can't today. The dish satellite isn't working and the cable company won't come out until next Thursday to reconnect the cable. Your brilliant plan to save on office overhead has knocked out TV reception in all the employee lounges, and the firm's IT department has set things up so that no one can get streaming video of anything that isn't strictly business related during business hours.” Spike gave Angel a smug little smile. “So, I'm here to help you out.”

“Just ... keep quiet, then. Let me do the talking. This is a very important new client I'm interviewing.” Angel watched through the glass wall as Harmony led a fairly nondescript but elegantly black-suited and extremely harried if not crazed looking man toward the conference room.

“Angel,” Harmony said as she entered the room, the very important potential new client following in her wake. “Your four o'clock is here. This is Mister...,” Harmony looked down at her clipboard, “uhm, Mister Master.”

Ignoring the “you have got to be kidding” look Spike shot him, Angel thanked Harmony . “Thanks, Harmony. Mr. Master, it's a pleasure to meet you.” Ignoring the poorly concealed snort Spike let out at hearing the title 'Mr. Master', Angel asked “Can we get you anything? Coffee?”

Not bothering to shake the hand that Angel held out, the Master abruptly collapsed into the chair next to Spike and let out a sigh of relief. “No, thank you. I haven't got time for pleasantries, unfortunately. I managed to shake him off, but he was following me and he could turn up here at any minute. And please, when you address me, just use the name 'Master'. The 'Mister' is quite unnecessary. I don't stand on formality, even though I am so much better than everyone else on this miserable, ape-infested planet.”

“You're English,” Spike observed.

The Master gave Spike an appraising look, then turned his attention to Angel and asked “So you've got a sidekick who's prone to blurting out non sequiturs, too, do you?”

Angel shot a warning look at Spike, who was clearly bristling at being called a sidekick, to stay quiet. “This is Spike. He's a business associate.”

“More like an independent contractor to Wolfram & Hart. They call me in to make sure this one,” he said as he gestured his head toward Angel, “doesn't completely mishandle potentially explosive situations.”

The Master nodded in approval. “Well, that's fine, then. I am rather important enough that your firm should provide extra quality control. I had hoped that the delectable Lilah Morgan would be assigned to my case, but I find no one here now seems to know who she is. A stellar legal mind and fantastic legs on that one. Has she been transferred to another office?”

Noticing that Spike and Harmony, who was still standing near the door waiting for further instructions, both had “Who's Lilah Morgan?” looks on their faces, and that Spike's look indicated that he wanted to know more about Lilah's legs, Angel quickly answered “Something like that. Harmony, thanks. You can go now.”

Harmony turned and nearly ran head on into the man who had just bounded into the room. He was tall, wore a suit that looked nice but wasn't nearly as elegant as the Master's and had dark hair that served as conclusive evidence that Angel was not the only one who used prodigious amounts of hair gel. “Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there,” Harmony apologized as she attempted to move around the man to get to the doorway.

“Oh, no,” Angel groaned as he looked at the latecomer. “Not you again. You don't have an appointment this time, either. You don't show up on my calendar. You don't even show up on the master calendar,” Angel complained as he waved the twenty-three sheets of paper that comprised Wolfram & Hart's master calendar print out of all Wolfram & Hart meetings and conferences scheduled for that afternoon. “Harmony, how did this happen again?”

Ignoring both Angel and the flapping paper, the Doctor kept his full attention on Harmony. “Oh, that's quite all right. I'm the Doctor, by the way. What's your name?” the Doctor asked as he failed to move enough out of Harmony's way to let her get around him without squeezing herself sideways between his body and the glass wall and scrutinized her in a way he would, if accused of doing it, absolutely deny was in any way at all a sexual come-on. “Hello, Angel,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Lovely to see you again. And Spike. Always a treat!”

“Good to see you too, Doctor,” Spike said warmly. Angel just groaned some more.

“I'm Harmony, Angel's personal assistant,” Harmony answered the Doctor in her most sultry voice. She knew a sexual come-one when she saw one.

“Good to meet you, Harmony Angel's Personal Assistant. Personal assistant. Now that sounds absolutely fascinating. I'd love to hear all about it,” the Doctor continued with the completely innocent chit-chat, except that he now directed his speech to a spot in the vicinity of Harmony's sternum.

The Master was having none of it. “Doctor, I realize she's a pretty young blond and all, but I do have a schedule and you've already made yourself enough of a nuisance by insisting on coming to this meeting with my solicitors. Since I was good enough to agree to waive my attorney-client privilege with these good counselors so as to allow you to be present, the least you could do is stop ogling the staff and let us get on with our meeting.”

The Doctor's eyes were glued to Harmony's retreating backside as she left the room. When the door closed behind her, he sat down next to the Master. “Oi! I wasn't ogling. I was merely being friendly. Getting acquainted, asking after her job, ...”

“Leering at her breasts. Yes, I noticed. We all did,” the Master interjected. “Now, if we could get down to business before you succeed in getting these fine gentlemen named as defendants in a sexual harassment lawsuit?”

“It looked like he was checking her out from behind at the end there, too,” Spike stage whispered to Angel, who merely squeezed his shut in response and tried to be thankful for small mercies. At least Spike hadn't used the word “ass”. Or “arse”.

“Leering?! Breasts?! I was never...!” the Doctor sputtered. “I'm a Time Lord! I'm asexual!”

“Hah!” the Master exclaimed. “Tell me another fairy tale. You haven't been asexual since you were a crotchety old man who'd forget what he was saying in the middle of his sentences. By the time you developed your bizarre love of anachronistic velveteen smoking jackets and frilly shirts, it was obvious to me that you'd been putting it about freely for centuries. I was very nearly lord and master of the entire universe, Doctor, but now I've been reduced to holding your coat and watching while you put the big-eyed, 'I'm-so-tortured-and-lonely-please-comfort-me' moves on impressionable young girls. Have you ever asked yourself what having to observe such a revolting spectacle does to me? Have you ever wondered, just a little, how it makes me feel to have to watch you do that? Well, let me tell you, Doctor. It _burns_.”

Observing the interaction between the Doctor and the Master, Spike reached what he thought was a sagacious conclusion. He then reached the decision to share it with the entire room. “You two bicker like old and very unhappy marrieds. Maybe you should think of getting a divorce.” Turning to Angel, he said “Angel, are you sure you don't know the Doctor from way back? Because it sounds like you learned a thing or two from him about how to pick up blond teenaged girls.”

Feeling like he should make at least a token attempt to regain control of the situation before abandoning all hope, Angel glowered at Spike. “Spike, not now. And I'm sure Mr. Master has some real legal problem he's here to see us about, not your crazy imaginings.”

“No, he's quite right,” said the Master after he shook off the irritated look that crossed his face when the Doctor and Spike both snickered at Angel having called him 'Mr. Master'. “The Doctor is, in some ways, a very old-fashioned gentleman. He couldn't reconcile himself to the idea of simply keeping me forever, not even for the sake of protecting the universe from the diabolical plots that I, evil genius that I am, will invariably visit upon it. He insisted that we register as domestic partners here in California. I've given it a fair go, but we're hopelessly incompatible. I want to formally dissolve the relationship.”

Spike could not help himself. He just had to ask. “Domestic partnership? Didn't want to live in sin, then, Doctor? Wanted to make an honest man of your Mr. Master?”

“Stop it,” hissed the Doctor.

“Spike, you're not helping,” Angel said, without much hope that he could regain control of the meeting or that anything could stop the migraine he could feel coming on.

“It's a fair question,” protested Spike. “Maybe the differences between them aren't really irreconcilable. We owe it to the Master here, as our client, to explore the situation fully.”

“You just want to ask them for details about their sex life,” Angel noted. Astutely.

“Well...yeah,” admitted Spike.

“Now, Master, you know I can't just let you go off on your own,” the Doctor said cajolingly. “You'll go out and accelerate cosmic entropy, or cause a rift in the space-time continuum, or invade Canada or something else equally evil.”

The Master plunked his hand on his chest and affected a look of shocked hurt. “You think I would do that? Doctor, do you really have so little faith in me?” Met with resounding silence, the Master swiftly segued into another approach. “Do you really have so little faith in yourself, then? Don't you believe that you've repaired whatever broken and twisted thing inside me it was that made me so nasty? Don't you believe that the gift of your forgiveness has made me a better person?”

The Doctor pursed his lips in contemplation. “Nah”, he finally responded. “I mean, I am good, but no, I don't think I've made you completely better just yet. We still have work to do.”

“Power of your love not as strong and healing as it used to be, Doctor?” Spike asked as he retrieved a notepad and a pen from his briefcase to take notes. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, 'specially not at your age. From all the adverts on the telly and the junk e-mails that make it through our spam filters here, I understand it's quite common. I'm sure the Wolfram & Hart medical team can come up with some medications to help you out in that department that won't flat out kill you.”

“Ooh, that sounds promising,” the Master enthused as he swiveled his swivel chair around to face the Doctor. “Doesn't that sound promising, Doctor?” The Doctor responded by turning a shade of red usually seen on ripe, vine-grown tomatoes on sale at farmers' markets.

“Maybe I'll just see if Gunn's back from court and has time take over this meeting,” Angel stopped rubbing his temples and grabbed for the phone to buzz Harmony on the intercom.

A voice came from somewhere near the potted plant in the corner. Actually, it seemed like it came from the potted plant. “He is not to be disturbed, half-breed. He seeks to increase his billable hours for the month.” Illyria stepped out from behind the plant.

“Illyria!” the Master cried delightedly and rose from his chair to greet her. “It's been ages, my sweet.”

The Doctor's eyes swept over Illyria's imposing, leather-clad physique, then narrowed in suspicion and focused on the Master. “You know her, then, do you?”

“Oh, come on, Doctor, don't act like you you don't know her. This is Illyria. Illyria? Shaper of Things? Ringing any bells? Yes? No? God-King of the Primordium, then, surely you remember that. Well, at least she was until she was imprisoned in the Deeper Well. It's so wonderful to see you out and about, Illyria. I thought Drogyn the Battlebrand was supposed to be one of the best jailers around. You must tell me how you escaped. Information about escape techniques is likely to come in very handy to me in the very near future.”

Angel cleared his throat. “Actually, I'd rather she didn't. Illyria's escape caused the death of a friend of ours. Spike and I tried to find a way to save her but we couldn't. We'd rather not listen to the story again.” He looked to Spike, who nodded in agreement.

The Master's eyes lit up. “Now that actually sounds quite interesting. Do tell, do tell.”

“Oi, show some compassion, Master!” The Doctor was practically shouting. He was that exasperated. “Try not to do that schadenfreude thing you always do.”

“Oh, yes! Spoil anything I might find remotely entertaining, why don't you. All for the sake of the feelings of your precious humans.”

“So neither of you are human. Great.” Angel had suspected as much, but he wanted to confirm his suspicion before he decided to pull the ultimate strategic legal maneuver out of his bag of strategic legal maneuvers and use it to devasting effect. He was going the do what he always saw the very best lawyers do while they attended important depositions. He was going to fish around in Spike's briefcase for a newspaper to read. He hoped Spike hadn't already thrown the sports page into the recycling bin. Calmly reading the sports page while everyone else yammered showed real legal acumen.

“They are Time Lords,” Illyria explained. “Once the Time Lords worshiped me. They were as bugs to my majesty. Now, these two are all that remain of their once-mediocre race, yet they have powers over time and space that outstrip the ones left to me in the weakened state I am forced to endure as I languish in this rotting shell.”

“I'm still quite fond of you, though,” the Master assured.

“You have regenerated,” Illyria said as she manhandled the Master up against the glass wall separating the conference room from the lobby and forcefully ran her hands all over his torso. “Your new body pleases me.” She ran her hands from his chest up along his neck to grip his jaw. “But it lacks facial hair. This is unacceptable. You will grow a beard and mustache.”

“The beard comes in a bit scraggly this time around, Illyria,” the Master explained as he tried not to pant. “I'm not sure you'll like the look.”

“I prefer that my attendant have facial hair. Stubble at the very least. You will regrow your beard in the shape of the goatee you had in past regenerations, but it may be smaller if necessary. Goatees do not require substantial facial hair. You will achieve it,” Illyria ordered as she released the Master.

“Attendant?” the Master and the Doctor asked in unison.

Angel looked up from his search through Spike's briefcase. So far, he'd only found the national news section and the crossword. The sports section was nowhere to be seen. Neither were the comics. “What are you talking about, Illyria?”

“The Master shall pay homage to me by using his knowledge of time and space to open five dimensional portals. I shall then visit the different dimensions his actions shall make available to me.”

“Five? Why only five?” Spike wondered.

“Because Time Lord knowledge of time and space is limited. This one,” she pointed to the Master with the kind of disgust usually employed by a cat-lover in pointing out an offensive dog relieving itself on a fire hydrant, “does not possess the power I once had. He is incapable of opening more than five dimensional portals without leaving permanent rifts in the fabric of time and space. Such rifts allow for the unimpeded passage of demons between the dimensions and enable them to simultaneously exist in more than one time line. The resulting paradox will destroy the connected universes.

“Actually, I'm much better at it than I used to be, Illyria,” the Master said, a small, self-pleased smile forming on his lips. “I'd have loved to show you my paradox machine, but the Doctor destroyed it. He never lets me have any fun.” His smile turned into a frown.

Illyria generously allowed the Master his little episode of delusional self-aggrandizement. He was only a Time Lord, after all. No one would ever seriously believe that he could ever handle dimensional portals with the skill and aplomb she once possessed. “Also,” she addressed Angel directly, “I do not want to make arrangements for my pet to be kenneled. There will be time enough only for five portal-openings.”

“Kenneled!?” Spike sputtered indignantly. “I'm not going into any bloody kennel. Vampire, here. I can take care of myself.”

Illyria turned to Spike. “The visitations I have in mind will be complete and I shall return within thirty-six of your hours. You will be able to attend to yourself for that time span. Your past behavior shows that, beyond thirty-six hours, you become too unruly and unmanageable.”

“Now, that's just not fair,” Spike vehemently protested. “That thing that happened in the seventh floor copier room with the hooker, the demon penguins and the mascarpone cheese was not my fault!”

Angel, the Doctor and the Master all turned to look at Spike. Angel had his raised-eyebrow, _Do I want to know about this?_ look on. The Doctor looked confused. The Master looked intrigued. Spike shrugged and said to Angel, “You were at a continuing education seminar on how to improve your management skills. I didn't think you'd mind.”

Angel turned his attention back to the important matter at hand, namely, Illyria's planned escape. He decided to be circumspect, at least as circumspect as he could be and still be intelligible. It was never a good idea to have the office's resident former god-king go ballistic in front of new clients. “Illyria, I know you're not feeling so...explosive now, but do you really think you can handle a solo trip in this existence? Shouldn't you maybe stay here until you get more used to things?”

“I will not be gone for a lengthy period of your time. It will be a 'vacation', as you call it.”

“I think most of us here would call it a 'holiday', Blue,” Spike corrected. “Except for Angel. He's pretty much bought completely into using only American English.”

“Holiday,” Illyria repeated like she was tasting the word on her tongue. “That is better. It connotes observation of ritual worship of a deity. I will be worshiped on my holiday.”

“Well, it's all settled then,” the Master said happily as he clapped his hands. “Illyria and I will just be off.”

“Oh, no, Master,” the Doctor interjected. “You're not going off on some day and a half-long jaunt. You're my responsibility, and I can't let you.”

“Really, Doctor, it's just a few hours we're talking about. I simply won't have time to get up to any mischief.”

“And I'm supposed to just believe that, then? I mean, what do I look like to you? Some gormless idiot?” The Doctor rushed his words along when it looked like the Master might answer what was supposed to be a rhetorical question. “You're a Time Lord. You can wrap time around your little finger. You'll make plenty of time to get up to all sorts of trouble. If it's a holiday you're after, we can go somewhere together. Mallorca, maybe? Or would you rather go skiing? How about mountain climbing? Oh, I'd love to go mountain climbing again. Everest, maybe. I remember when I met the Yeti .........

The Master cut him off. “I think a little time away from each other would do us the most amount of good, Doctor. I'm sure you'll enjoy climbing Mt. Everest every bit as much all by yourself. Or take Spike.”

“Hey!” Spike cried indignantly. “I'll plan my own vacations, thank you.”

“Holiday,” corrected the Master.

“Away from each other? Why would you want to do that? We're the last two Time Lords. We should stick together. One for all and all for one. Why would you want to spend time away from me?”

“Because it's driving me insane!”

“What's driving you insane?”

“Your incessant, mind-numbing, never-ending prattle, Doctor, that's what. Your speed speech, your bounding up and down and all around as you jabber about the utter crap you find interesting. It's worse than the drums. I'd rather have the drums back.” At the Doctor's devastated look, the Master softened his tone. “I'm not talking about escaping from you permanently. But, don't you see, I must be free of you for just a little while or I'll go stark, raving mad. Again. Separate holidays will be a healthy thing for us both.”

“That's your solution, then?” the Doctor sputtered. “Things get a little rough, so you just run off with some leather-armored, blue-tinged tart?”

The Master planted his face in his palm in embarrassed disbelief. Removing his hand from his face, he looked at the Doctor. “And just when, exactly, did you become a bigoted jackass? A being's skin texture and color never used to matter to you. And 'tarts'?” You used to have so much more respect for intelligent, resourceful women. Well, you always did especially like the wide-eyed, worshipful ones who were a little short on brains, but you respected a woman of high intellect. Liz Shaw, for instance. She was delightfully intelligent, and you got on with her, didn't you? And you didn't mind a woman being stronger and braver than you, either. I mean, the way you used to absolutely shove Leela, in her skimpy little leather dress, in front of you whenever you had to walk down a dark corridor so she could protect you with her Bowie knife and her bare hands didn't exactly bespeak of severe misgivings about her ability to get the job done because of her gender. Or did you only do that so you could cop a feel?”

“He's a bit of a homophobe, too,” contributed Spike. “Gets all skittish when you talk about sex and men and don't mention women in the same sentence." Spike turned to the Doctor. "So, any chance we might be meeting this Leela, then?”

“Oh, Doctor! Really!” the Master said, disappointed disapproval clearly audible in every syllable.

The Doctor's jaw dropped. “You've got nerve, standing there sounding disappointed in me. You're the one who goes around calling my companions, actually rather nice people who just may have a few things about them that are wrong, girlies and freaks.”

The Master dropped his head down and shook it as he stared at his extremely shiny shoes, stunned by what he was hearing. “Doctor, Doctor, Doctor. Are you really so oblivious? Your companions have been perfectly lovely people. Well, Turlough was a bit devious, which is rather a plus, actually, and Adric was a bit annoying before you made him sacrifice himself, but still, lovely people for the most part. I call your companions names and I'm mean to them as a way to taunt you. I try taunting you directly but you never respond other than to tell me you forgive me. I can't even tell if you've heard me or are even paying attention to me, you're that unresponsive. You've either learned to completely ignore me or you've got a ridiculously thick martyr's hide. But I can always get to you through your companions.

“Sounds frustrating,” commiserated Spike. “Taunting Angel's much more fun. He's easy to taunt directly. You're welcome to sit in and watch if you think it might give you some pointers. You can join in when you feel you're able to match the technique.”

The Master, not exactly happy about the loss of his verbal momentum, looked sideways at Spike. Still, he'd learned during his short but wildly successful political career that it never pays to be rude to one's lawyers. Besides, he found he rather liked this “Spike” person. “Not just now, but thanks for the offer. You know, I like you. Can I buy you a pint when we're through here?”

Spike shrugged. “Sure. Why not? The penguins can't make it tonight anyway. What time?”

The Doctor could not believe it. “I cannot believe it! Are you asking him out on a date!? Right in front of me?! You are! You are asking him out on a date! Don't even try to deny it! I'm standing right here! I heard it all! You didn't even think of my feelings, did you?!”

The Master shook his head and sighed. “Doctor, don't be so silly. And stop using so many exclamatory phrases. It's boring.” He turned around so that the Doctor couldn't see his face as he addressed Spike. “I'll pick you up at 7:00. Bring the mascarpone,” the Master whispered and winked at Spike before turning back to the Doctor and continuing on as if there had been no interruption. “You've always been the bastion of appropriateness. You were the one who was always doing the right thing, I was the one who was always doing the evil thing. Now, you're acting like the bad Time Lord. Does this make me the good Time Lord?”

Spike couldn't help but draw parallels. “You know, I knew a slayer once who was confused about something very similar. Used to be a homicidal maniac, but she's repenting for that. Still a bit wild, though. Lives out in Cleveland now. You might want to look her up if you find yourselves in Ohio. Name's Faith. Nice girl. Knows how to party.”

The Master continued to speak directly to the Doctor. “And you're acting like a very bad Time Lord indeed in this regeneration. Look at yourself, throwing yourself at young girls, being intolerant, annihilating species. And you can't even blame it on Time Lord menopause because you've already gone through that. Twice.” He twirled to face Spike, the coattail of his expensive suit jacket flying up as he did. “Cleveland, you say? Do you have a phone number, by any chance? Or an e-mail address, maybe?”

“I am _not_ acting like a bad Time Lord!” the Doctor insisted. “And what do you want a formerly-homicidal slayer's phone number for?” 

The Master yo-yo'd his attention back to the Doctor and spoke in what he hoped were calming and not just smarmy tones. “She sounds rather enchanting. It might be worth looking her up and getting to know her. Perhaps she'd like to travel with us. Just think, that would give you two ex-villains to preach to about the glorious, wonderful gifts that being good brings.” Turning back to Spike, he asked “Think she might go in for a three-way?”

“Not sure. Maybe. I know she likes bullwhips and is game for dressing up like a schoolgirl.”

The Master sucked in a breath. “Liking this girl better and better.” Off the Doctor's shocked look, he said “What are you looking at me like that for? It's not like I'm planning on leaving you hanging out in the cold. I asked about a three-way, didn't I? And I should think the schoolgirl outfit would appeal to you, given how foolishly you've been behaving these last few years. It's hard to tell which is worse, your losing your head over children young enough to be your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughters or your being a prejudiced ass.”

The Doctor was being chided. By the Master, of all people. The Doctor hated being chided. Especially by the Master. “I am not! I'm not any of those things you're saying I am! Sorry if I'm not being PC, but I'm a bit upset here. I just found out that the only other Time Lord left in existence can't think of anything but getting away from me! I really am alone!” the Doctor wailed bleakly.

“I didn't say I was never coming back.” Seeing the Doctor's wibbling lip, the Master pouted in understanding sympathy. “Oh, now don't be that way. Come here,” he said, holding out his arms to the Doctor in an invitation to a soothing hug.

The Doctor wasn't interested in being soothed. Or even being hugged. “Oh, so you just assume I'll just take you back when you get bored gallivanting around the galaxies with the likes of her.” The Doctor waved his hand vaguely in Illyria's direction before huffily turning his back on the Master and walking to the far end of the conference room table. He sat down in the chair farthest away from the Master and crossed his legs. Away from the Master, of course, because he was feeling hostile towards the Master and everyone knows that, in body language, legs crossed away from a person means you feel hostile towards them. “Well, just maybe I won't. There's only so much I can stand, you know.”

“Silence, Time Bugs,” Illyria said imperiously. “Your speech is loud and unnecessary. I will appropriate your time capsule, Doctor. You will both attend me and pay homage to my greatness. Come.” She turned and strode out of the conference room.

The Doctor looked uneasily at Illyria as she left the room, then turned to the Master. “Maybe you have a point. Separate holidays sounds lovely. A little apart time to think about everything that's good without banging our heads against everything that's bad. Bit of a break will do us good. Yes, I think I agree with you.”

The Master moved swiftly to the Doctor's chair. “Oh, no you don't,” said the Master as he grabbed the Doctor's arm and forced him to rise from his seat. “You, a mere Time Lord, just insulted a god. She's going to be mad at Time Lords. Without you there, I'll be the only Time Lord around for her to vent on and rant at. You are not running off and leaving me in peril of all of my current body parts and all of my remaining regenerations because you weren't able to keep your mouth shut. We Time Lords have to stick together, after all. All for one and one all, isn't that right?”

“We're not actually going with her, are we?” the Doctor asked, sounding downright fearful.

“Refuse an order from a god who, even if she can't manipulate time or open dimensional portals anymore, can most certainly pound us into mincemeat? I don't think.”

“But, but, she looks like she can hurt us.”

The Master began to make his way around the conference room table to the door, pushing the decidedly non-bounding Doctor in front of him. “Just try not to call her a tart to her face again. But if you must, make sure you do it when I'm in another part of the TARDIS.”

“Oh, no,” the Doctor said as the Master dragged him out of the room. “I'm not letting you leave me alone with her. She looks like she could snap my spine. She looks like she could...” The conference room door swung closed behind the Doctor and cut off his voice, leaving whatever else he thought Illyria looked like she could do to him forever shrouded in mystery.

Spike clapped Angel on the back congratulatorily. “You handled that magnificently, Angel.”

Angel looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Thanks, Spike.” He was beginning to realize that unlife, even with Spike in it, was so much easier if he just let these appointments on the calendar take care of themselves. “So, it looks like your date's gonna stand you up.”

“Through no fault of his own. Doesn't really have a choice, does he. Not likely he'd run out on a date with me if it wasn't for fear of being disemboweled by Little Shiva.”

“So...you want to...go get a drink with me?”

A sarcastic comment was waiting to launch itself from the tip of Spike's tongue. Instead of letting it fly, Spike took a moment to think back on the afternoon's events. Angel really had handled the situation pretty well. He didn't get all broody and furrow his big forehead the way he usually did. It could be a good sign. Angel could finally be growing a personality. Or it could be a sign that all hell was going to be breaking loose soon and that Angel just couldn't be arsed with the small stuff. A drink sounded good either way. “Yeah, all right. I'll see you at 7:00.”


End file.
